Fine

It’s a playlist of mine, on itunes, that I made probably in 2013 or 2014 when I was definitely anything but fine. It was a time when I was used the response ‘I’m fine’ quite a lot. The playlist is a mixbag (or mix-tape if you will) of tracks that reflect the state of mind of really not being fine, or trying to find a way to be fine.

All I can think about right now, is that playlist. And how very much ‘not fine’ I am. Which is surprising, because up until very recently I have been so fine. I’d even go as far as saying I was feeling positive, which is not something often used to describe me (or how I’d ever describe myself). I’m more of ‘have we assessed the liquid in the glass and made sure we know the facts supporting our decision before we call it half full, or half empty’ kind of person.

But suddenly I am hit with an enormous wave of grief. A flood of thoughts, of memories, of songs even, and I’m trying to identify my trigger.

The triggers are everywhere. One of my favourite friends, my original work-wife, lost her mom suddenly to covid. On the same day, an old acquaintance who lost her mom last year to the cancer battle, updated us that her dad had gone on a ventilator. Also Covid. He passed away this morning.

The wave engulfs me.

I had covid just before Christmas. My husband and daughter too. And it felt like… nothing. Like allergies and sinuses and a bit of end of year exhaustion. The guilt that my covid resulted in a couple of naps, but their covid’s resulted in… well.

I’m not ok. I’m fine.

But this isn’t only about covid.

My daughter is 5 (AND a half she’ll tell you!) And while I still find parenting one of the most challenging things I’ve done, with moments where I’m definitely not that keen on doing it anymore (I said moments, they’re fleeting .. mostly) my heart is aching. Its breaking. Because there are no morning cuddles anymore. There’s a lot of sas, ballet shows, and chats. (You think I talk a lot? That girl has some words in her!) And while I may be lifting a bit heavier in the gym, I’m not carrying 20kgs of child around on my hip. She’s more than half my size now. She’s my child, not my baby. I’m triggered by how grown up she is. How fast the time has gone. How I’ll never get this time back. A lot by the loss of her sibling, that never could be. Firstly out of our hands, and now purposefully chosen to be so – I still sometimes feel robbed.

Robbed.

That’s way too dramatic isn’t it? Considering I have a beautiful, healthy child who arrived as an absolute miracle and then survived an open heart surgery and continues to thrive and grow.

So the tears well, and I listen to some old songs. I remember times that were simpler but felt harder.

I’m fine.

2018.

Its been a while since I’ve done this. Looked back, before looking forward. Or in fact – looking in any direction other than at my watch, at my child, or at my fridge.

But here, I am. And there 2018 was.

2018. You were good to me.

I started the year knowing what had to be done. It was a toxic (working) end to 2017 with corporate bullying, too much time spent behind the wheel of my car, and none of that work-life (mom-wife) balance that I needed. A job, no more than 10mins from my front door, found me and I resigned from Spree. A place I had been committed to for 5 years.

In a truly epic swan song, we shot our last campaign in a Game Reserve, which wasn’t a kak way to leave the fashion business for the FMCG one. I did however, leave behind some special people though – a fashion director I didn’t know the name of on my first day in the fashion business became someone I admire so much and am constantly in awe of his work; a marketing team that were full of life and laughs with an energy that is impossible to replace; and a work-wife and friend who just ‘got me’ and thank heavens has also ‘got me through’ a lot of the dark spaces of early parenthood.

Spree shut down later in the year, and it was with the biggest sadness that even after having already said goodbye when I left the company a few months before, I had to say goodbye all over again to a brand I had spent a long time being a part of building.

In 2018, we made travel dreams come true. Twice.
We travelled to New York in the Spring. Where they had one of the biggest snowstorms of the year. It was crazy fun. We visited Top of the Rock, drank great(ly expensive) coffee, and walked close to 20 000 steps a day. We also visited a speakeasy from the prohibition era, and drank what tasted like gin & fanta from teacups.
We surfed in Sri Lanka, and took one of the most beautiful train rides in the world. Drank a lot of tea, and again drank cocktails in teacups – but these were a lot better.
We ticked items off that bucketlist that seems to grow every year rather than get shorter. And loved every minute of it.

Mark turned 40. And while I made an impromptu, but fairly rubbish speech, I wrote a lot of really great words in his card, that mostly centred around the next chapter, the next decade and us, as a family of three.

On that… Closing 2018 marks 2 years of trying to have another baby. Which makes 7 years of trying to conceive in total. Which is a crap long time if you think about it. We’ve been actively trying to have a baby for as long as you were in primary school. We’re done with that now. Which is a relief. And while this second attempt was a bit tough again, it was not nearly as haunting as the first time round. What will be, is. And thats where we are.

Elle turned 2. She then turned 2 and a half and those tantrums we thought we’d escaped (and gratefully so) finally kicked off and I questioned (and continue to question) my ability and strength (emotional and physical) to be this mom. This parent. This person with a dependant that needs me, but battles to express her emotions, while being equal parts strong-willed and adorable. Continuing to make parenthood the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life. But oh, when she laughs. When smiles. And when she says ‘I’m tired, I’ve had too much fun’ (or did she say wine?) – December 2018.

Elle is a blessing, a miracle and the most beautiful thing I’ve been involved in. My love for her is indescribable, but my life with her is only manageable with Mark by my side.

10 years. Mark has been by my side for ten whole (married) years. We celebrated with our trip to Sri Lanka, and a very special gift. And when I reflect on this year, our tenth anniversary, but also the other things in life – the renovations at home, our daughter, my job change and emotional journey of the year – I realise, yet again, how lucky I am to have him. How much I adore him. And how grateful I am that we still choose each other.

I hit pre-baby weight at last (just shy of two years later – which is shocking!) and then put on about 5kgs when I started my new job, and have been struggling since to lose it. On the scale that is. I have been training harder than I’ve trained since 2014. And I hope that 2019 continues this way and that I can finally hit some of those fitness goals I’ve hoped for (you know, a Bikini Body for example).
I also hope that with enough focus, I can start to move past the twice daily weigh-ins I’ve subjected myself to for years and actually just enjoy the body I have.
* A flashback photo to myself in matric on NYE, has already helped this. I’m 20 years on, and look a lot better than I did back then.
It won’t be easy, but I need to prioritise self-love, self-care and nourishing my body rather than judging, hating and punishing it.

So, 2019 – you’re up. No big expectations, just a few little goals.
* nourish don’t punish
* less (social media) screen time, more typing (writing) time
* a little bit of house decor (will the house EVER be done?)
* a sunshine family holiday (Greece, Bali, Mauritius?)

 

Women, can we just stop judging for a moment?

I know I’m not the first person in the world to write about this. And I certainly know that there are better writers who will put this a whole lot more eloquently than I’m going to.

But women: let’s just stop with the judging.

I had a c-section. I also gave up breastfeeding. Both weren’t by choice but more by doctors orders (guidance), but perhaps if I’m honest if I really wanted it any other way (for both things), I would’ve fought harder. Perhaps even objected when given the… err… guidance. But I didn’t.

But… who the fuck cares and what difference does it make?

More pointedly: what difference does it make to YOU (other woman asking)

Too often I hear ‘…land(ed) up in a cesar’. Preceded by ‘did it…’ or ‘shame it…’ as if a cesar is this big bad fucking horrible sin. This eventual end for some that is disappointing to not only the people surrounding the woman but her herself.

Shame. How terrible it must be to have a Cesar.

What this is not, is a post to commend women on the strength it takes to have a Cesar. There are plenty posts that do that – pat us Cesar women on the back and say well done, we’re as ‘mom’ as those ‘real moms’ who gave birth naturally. I’m not going to do that.

What I want to do is know why this is important? Why do we feel the need to know how a child was brought into the world, or ask how a pregnant woman intends to experience child birth. With epidural, without? Cesar? Doctor or midwife? It’s no-ones business and it shouldn’t matter. Do we just ask it because we want something to talk about. There’s probably plenty other topics you could pick to talk to an expecting mom about. New moms actually need real advice – like about reflux, what medicines to keep on hand, colic remedies, private vs government vaccines, what it means when they say you need to register your child for school (STILL DON’T KNOW what this means AND IS IT TOO LATE?) but not are you planning a natural or cesarean birth.

This question just lines up for judgement. And judge we do ladies. Judge that they’re nuts (those home birthing hippies), judge that they’re brave (those epidural free, midwiving women), judge that they’re not even trying (those planned cesareans), judge what a pity it is (those emergency cesareans). When really, does it matter?

There is so much guilt attached to Cesar births. I can’t comment for those that plan theirs but certainly the unplanned ones. Guilt that we couldn’t make it all the way, guilt that we’re secretly grateful we didn’t have to.

Mine wasn’t planned. I went into a natural labour at 40 weeks at 2.30am. I woke my husband up as one would, he mumbled the words ‘not tonight’, as only someone who had only climbed into bed an hour earlier would. I had contractions that I timed, just as we had learnt at the antenatal class. But something wasn’t right. We went to the hospital only at about 7am. My doctor was called after I had been monitored for an hour. The decision was quick. I had waited 5 years for this baby, why wait longer and run any risks. There may have been complications if we waited. It may have been fine. The medical advice was on the table and we took it.

But. I knew my gynae preferred cesars from the first day I met her. And on speaking to a few people (yoga instructors, antenatal teachers.) I did my research. She, like me, prefers a controlled environment. Which is probably why I chose her has my doctor (sub consciously anyway). Don’t ‘shame it landed in a cesar’ my child’s birth. It did. But I wasn’t ill-informed. I knew it may from before any complication arose on 2 June.

But still, I guilt. Women “oh shame…” me.

There’s so much guilt in being a mom (aptly named mom-guilt), as woman we should really stop and just support each other, throw the cesar or natural question out, and instead ask if we can buy some nipple cream, or recommend a good ‘home cooked meal delivery’ service instead.

** note. On writing this post I had to google how to spell cesarean twice. Apparently it is  not in fact a Caesar, as brave as some may like to think the two both are – they’re not related. 

 

 

I am not ok.

It’s been 1 year, 9 months and a week since I’ve felt like myself.

2014 was a bit shitty, but by 2015 I was feeling good. I had let those poisonous people and things go. I had stopped all fertility drugs and measures. I danced at the wedding of a best friend and then visited London before tackling the slopes of Meribel and had the best and most successful of snowboarding trips I’ve ever been on. I ran a 12km road race without real preparation. I donated blood. I did a juice detox. I had a minor op. I had a weekend off the grid. I succeeded at work. I fell pregnant.

While the first few months of pregnancy are expected to be rough, since my 12 week scan I have not been ok. It’s been over a year. And I’m still not ok.

The anxiety of my pregnancy I don’t need to go into again. It’s there. It was shit. But she’s here and healthy and a dream child who has slept through the night since she was about 4 months old.

But I am still not ok.

I don’t know when I’ll be ok. If I’ll ever be ok. Is this who I am now? Is this what being a mom finally means? Complex anxiety around your child’s health and well-being, while battling between the demand for one’s previous self/body/head space/focus/intelligence and the demand to be the best damn mom you can, while never actually feeling ok?

Her Birth Day

I would love to lie and say the past year has been nothing short of perfection and that motherhood met my expectations. 

But the truth is, while there have been great times, it’s also been hard. A year ago, I could never have imagined the change a child could bring to not only my life, but to me as a person. There have been times this year, I have felt like a stranger losing so much of myself to give to this small human, and to still feel it’s not enough. I sit here tonight, and I wonder how I managed those first few days, weeks even. I wonder how on earth I knew what to do. I don’t recall preparing for it. I don’t think you can really. They said it, but until it happens you can’t understand it. I can barely understand it now. 

Your natural instinct of mothering. 

And you just DO. You look after, care for, and love this small person more than anything in the world and you just do. I feel overwhelmed by that. That natural instinct of love. It catches you a little off guard. 

Elle fell asleep in my arms tonight, something she doesn’t do often (she takes after me that way – not a big cuddler), and I held her. I held her because now she is one. She has already lived a full year of life. A year we’ll never get back. She’ll never be smaller than she is right now again. And while it was so tough, this first year, and she challenged me, it was also insurmountably special. It was everything I never knew it would be. It went fast. It also went slowly. But now it’s gone. And she’s one and no longer a baby. 

She wore skinny jeans and a grey jumper today and I saw her as a little girl, my little girl, but a little girl and not my baby. It makes me both happy and sad. It’s not likely I’ll have another baby, and while I don’t want to press pause or any other cliche, I just want to be. 

So I held her as she slept, this little one year old of mine. This special miracle. This disruptor, challenger, feisty dancer. I held her because I still can. And I treasured her heart beating against mine as it is my greatest gift – her Birth Day. 

What’s in a name?

That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet?

Yes yes, I’m a big fan of Shakespeare (‘s tragedy) but really let’s talk about names.

Elle Charlotte.

My daughter’s name was originally going to be Emma. 6 years ago when we thought having a baby would be nice and Mrs M fell pregnant and planned for the arrival of Emily, we discussed how it would work…. Emma… and Emily. And decided they’d be friends and it could. So Emma Jane would be her name.

But time passed and Emily arrived safely and started to grow up a bit. And Emma, over time and pending her arrival became Olivia. Inspired by our favourite show of the time, Fringe (my ringtone was also inspired by it for a while) and there weren’t a lot of Olivias around.

Until there were.

It became fashionable and people we knew started naming their daughters Olivia, but I held onto the name because I liked it a lot, and I was reassured by friends that it’d be ok. When Olivia arrived she’d be my Olivia and it didn’t matter that it had now become a popular name.

Olivia Jane was her name.

And we waited.

But Olivia, Liv, became our IVF baby. She became the blood tests, the waiting, the tears and the emptiness. And still we waited. And so, when I fell pregnant by accident and surprise, our baby was no longer Olivia.

Jane was the constant, as you can guess. Named after two very important people. Samantha Jane, my late cousin who we tragically lost when she was 16, and my mom Rejane (pronounced Ra-jean, so only the Jane in the spelling really).

Elle. Or Al (in pronunciation if I’m honest). It started way before Emma.

In 2007, we got engaged and I also started working in an Asset Management firm – SSGA. I worked for guy, Arron, who little did I know at the time would not only share my birthday, but his wife would inspire my child’s name. As is the case within an open plan office, or maybe just a quiet office of finance ops nerds –  I overheard phone calls to his wife, Al. Short for Alison. Or Alice. But over the phone, he called her Al  (cue: Paul Simon hum).

I liked the name a lot. But I didn’t like Alice. Or Alison. And so Elle became. In 2007, before I was even married, my future girl child would be Elle.

Elle Jane.

Elle Jane.

L Jane

L J – isn’t that a rapper? (ok, ok… LL Cool J)

Elle Jane was just never going to work. But I needed it to.

And then my mom delivered her pearler: “I never liked the name Jane. Plain Jane.” (err.. mom, the name is your namesake). But nope, she was not a fan even with this tug on her heart.

And so with just a few days before the imminent arrival of a baby who we weren’t sure was a girl or a boy yet, we learnt an interesting fact. My mom’s mom, a grandmother I never knew, the real name she never went by, was Charlotte.

And so Elle Charlotte suddenly became our miracle baby daughter’s name. That by the time I went into labour, we were still convinced was a boy. By “we” – I mean Mark. I always knew (dating back to 2007 ofcourse) that my first born would be a girl.

And while I fend off the stupids who ask if Elle/Al, is short for Alistair or Allan, and I smile sweetly (eye roll them) while pointing out that she’s a girl and her name is Elle – like the magazine, or you know, the international supermodel, I know that this child is more unique than just her name. She chose to arrive when she did, against the odds, to a name that was planned well before her time but only came to us at the last moment.

Elle Charlotte Hawkins. My miracle baby girl.

I’m now a mom-car owner

Cars. I’m one of those girls who love them. Probably not as much as some guys, but more than a lot of girls. I like driving. I like diesel. I like cars with a bit of power (even if I don’t like speed). I’m a fan of torque and I know my KW. (sorta. Don’t test me on that).

I also love my golf. Have always loved my golf(s). I’ve driven a citi, a 4, 5, 5 tdi and now my 6 tdi. But… I always pegged getting a bigger mom car on when i became a… Ahem… Mom (fancy that?)

So it’s time. Now that I’m a mom. Now that that box is officially ticked. It’s time.

There are plenty of mom cars… Or SUVs… to choose from. They look good. All of them. Even previous cars that you’d swear were just for farmers now look stylish enough to park in Constantia village. But how do they driiiive? I needed to find out before commencing the search on getting a good deal (oh did I mention this change of car needed to be cost effective in order to fulfil other things that a mom has. Or hasn’t. Like money).

We started here. Because great days start with (who am I kidding?… ALL days start with) a coffee. Also, who knew bootleggers were in Tokai? They’re slowly taking over the world… or Cape Town at least!

First stop: Nissan (we are driven).

The new xtrail. It’s less of a box than the old one… and honestly the one I had my heart most set on.

It has 7 seats, and weirdly doesn’t sound like a tractor. Personally I think its fairly good looking. But… the 2 litre doesn’t come in diesel and the diesel doesn’t come in automatic and basically, I’m not driving another manual car in traffic again. Have you seen my left thigh from all that clutch control?

We drove along main road (where else can you find every single one of the dealerships in South Africa in a single stretch), our next stop was at Kia.

Sportage 2014, 2016, 2017. We drove them all.

Well, I didn’t drive the 2017. But I looked at it. Personally – I think its a bit Porche looking, but not in a good way. But look, I didn’t like the look of the Golf 5 when it came out and I was all about that 4. That clearly changed, so I’m sure my feelings on the new Sportage will change in time too.

2014, or the 2016 model. They’re the same.

The porsche wanna be. Or the 2017 Model.

The 2016 and the 2014 both drove well (…well enough for my standards anyway). They were nice, and I could see myself in them (especially the 2016 model. Except that it was blue. And I don’t do blue cars. Its a weird me thing. We could’ve found it in another colour though).

After KIA, a detour (or the realisation that not everything is in main road) saw us at the Ford dealership in town. Where, before the fires and the now zero worth vehicles became a thing, a sales lady put me off the KUGA for life. I couldn’t even consider it past her rude, snotty behaviour towards us. And I’m so glad she was rude otherwise… 😐

Interestingly the Kuga was also blue. I really do have a thing against blue.

Its LIT

We kinda then by accident popped in to Land Rover. Just to.. you know, see.

And kinda sat in one of these and dreamt a little dream. The boot was too small… otherwise….!!!!

One day when I’m no longer a mom to a baby in a pram

Tried to find out about one of these

which are apparently like hens teeth… so….: no.

The Toyota showroom has some steelcapped boots photographed on the wall. It should’ve told us everything, but yet we still drove the Rav4. Unlike the nissan x-trail that’s changed its shape and has become a bit more luxe, the RAV4 is made like a bakkie and still feels like a bakkie.

The facelift, is just a facelift

Next we test drove the surprisingly gorgeous CX-5. Surprising, because the last Mazda I knew was a 3-2-3, and this was a far cry from that. It was very… Mercedez-ish. Without that pricetag (we drove the Mercedez A-series as well and thank heavens for its tiny boot otherwise… )

The surprise contender

The extras on the Mazda is what killed it for me (and what pushed the price up). Leather, diesel, automatic. But then some weird limitations – like if you have a diesel automatic, you don’t have PDC (or reverse camera or one of those anyway). Either way it sounded like a bum deal.

We also visited Subaru and drove the outlander. No wait, the Forrester. Agg… we drove something that was big and I was getting a bit over it.

Our shortlist was the KIA. And possibly the Mazda.We didn’t even get to the Tucson, or IX35. Or the Tiguan (even though I’m all VW for life and all). We also never got to Jeeps or Volvos (because… ka-ching).

But none of it mattered as we drove in Durbanville one weekend and literally and unintentionally looked in at a no-name-brand dealership on Durban road. We eyed a beautiful beast. One that we (I) had never, and thought I would never, consider.

And then we bought it.

Because: German Engineering

I’m now the owner of a Mom-car. An Audi Q5. His name is Tendai. The Beast.

**None of these images are the actual cars we looked at because I’m not weird and up for photographing at every dealership we visit. 
** disclaimer. The decision making to finally get this car took about 3 months. I like cars. I don’t like decisions. 

Thick as thieves

Every now and then in life if you’re lucky, you have a friend (call it a best friend if you must or if you’re in std 6…) that you connect with beyond the ordinary.

It’s in the way you catch each other’s eye over the table while someone else is talking and you know instantly what the other is thinking while you smile (sometimes discreetly, sometimes not so much). It’s in the way, when you start to tell a lie (hi, my name is xxx and this is my twin sister… Or hi, yes we are interested in buying a bmw) and they instantly follow suit, stepping alongside you and not missing a beat to back you up in your storytelling (likely to be followed by fits of giggles if you’re still in std 6, or even if you’re at uni actually).

It’s the friendships like these, the ones where people say ‘those two are thick as thieves’ as you incessantly hang out, spend hours together, coffees that turn into wines 6 hours later. The ones that even though it’s frightening in how well you complete each other, they may sometimes be poisonous or end badly. And I don’t mean falling into a bush, or writing off a car badly, but both have been known to happen.

I’ve been lucky (or perhaps unlucky?) to have had a few of these thieves as friends over the years. Some with dramatic endings, some with rather vanilla ones and some with no ending at all (as I’ll be seeing them tomorrow) and some, some that ended and then we all grew up and became friends again (although perhaps with a little less madness, dosage, and alcohol).

Everyone is all about lemons and lemonade this year but I’m all about those people that were my thieves I was thick with. They’ve shaped me.  They shape me still. They taught me hard lessons.  Some taught me nothing but fun. Some still teach me – even though I don’t see them or even really know them anymore. The odd part is, even though I may not be friends with them – I still think of them. I am reminded of them. Sometimes its by something I see, or hear. And sometimes its in the way I behave, respond or even connect with someone new.

I wonder if they think of me too. I wonder if others are as deeply impacted by relationships as I’ve been.

Two of my ‘thieves’ connected with me again this year out of the blue, and after many years. While I didn’t ask, I wonder what prompted them and if it was a once off thought that spurred the spontaneity of connecting or if it had been lingering thoughts that had  finally prompted them to take the plunge and (facebook) message. And while the expectation is real – we’re never going to be thick as thieves again – it was so warmly reassuring that I’m not alone in memories of fun, wild, silly fun that only two that are thick as thieves can have and will always be connected by.

 

 

 

Those memories

Someone once called me an elephant. Apparently, he wasn’t calling me it in reference to my size or weight (although me and those damn body issues), apparently it was to do with my memory. Apparently he had a point.

Those damn memories.

I’m not talking about the good ones – you know; the i do’s or Foo fighters concerts. I’m talking about those other ones. The ones that manifest as flashes. The haunting ones. 

The grand entrance you make at some boy you fancy’s res at 2am after lots of tequila, the dance off at your year end party, the inappropriate text message or phone call that you can’t take back, the time you drove drunk through a road block, the moment you hear your baby may not be healthy. The spine tingle, the overwhelming nausea that those memories, those haunting memories deliver in an instant. The ones you cant seem to rid yourself of – even after it’s been years. All it takes is one song, one picture, one drive by, and you’re right there in the memory that haunts you.

One year has passed now, I still get that small chill when I think of how different things may have been, and I thank God for how are they are. 

But those memories… never seem to leave the backs of my eyelids. 

I’m eating carbs. Ask me how many fucks I give

Zero. I give zero fucks about my carbs.
I also haven’t gone to gym in 6 weeks. Zero fucks.

This is the most bizarre feeling in the world. I’ve never felt this way. Ever. I’m the girl who admitted to weighing myself twice a day, every damn day. And now. Now I’m eating carbs. I’m eating sugar. And I’m doing it and I actually couldn’t care. Life right now, is challenging. I’m working again, I’m wife-ing, I’m mom-ming and yes I know countless women before me have done these things simultaneously and had possibly more on their plate, but this is the first time I’m doing them and it’s fucking hard. So I actually don’t need to add being painful about what I eat to that mix. 

Liberated? No, I don’t feel freedom about not being ridiculously strict about my food consumption but I don’t feel guilty either. I’m trying to be the best I can be right now which means that having the energy to be on play mode for two hours when I get home after sitting in traffic for an hour after a full and long day at the office means that I may just need to have a slice of toast or an easy to snack on rusk. Cramming a full day into two hours less at the office, just to be able to leave in time to sit on M3 for fekking ages to get home in time for nanny, means that if lunch can be made quickly and consumed even quicker if it’s made of carbs, I’m not gonna be fussy. And if this means that my mombod is going to take me into 2017, then so be it because right now… Zero fucks given.